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| Talking Story with Arlo |
By Arlo Agogo
A 10 year old Rat Fink Model Maker & Blogger
That Crazy Rat Fink Vibe, Man!
A Beatnik Blast Through Big Daddy Roth’s Kustom Kulture Groove. Alright, hep cats and cool kittens, gather ‘round the cosmic campfire, ‘cause your ol’ pal Arlo’s gonna spin a yarn wilder than a chrome-plated dragster burnin’ rubber on a moonlit strip!
We’re divin’ headfirst into the far-out world of Ed “Big Daddy” Roth and his gnarly cartoon creation, Rat Fink—a green, bug-eyed, gear-grindin’ greaser who flipped the bird at Mickey Mouse and became the patron saint of hot rod rebellion.
This ain’t just a story, man; it’s a time machine back to the 1960s, when high school was all about fast cars, loud pipes, Cragar rims, and cruisin’ with your best gal before curfew.
So, buckle up, grab a root beer, and let’s peel out into the Kustom Kulture scene, where Rat Fink and his weirdo pals ruled the asphalt jungle! Picture it, daddy-o: Southern California, late 1950s, where the sun’s blazin’ hotter than a dual-carb V8, and Ed Roth, a 6-foot-4 cat with a paintbrush and a dream, is cookin’ up something wild.
Born in Beverly Hills in ’32, Big Daddy was no square—by 14, he’s wrenchin’ on a ’33 Ford coupe, takin’ auto shop and art classes at Bell High School, and soakin’ up the vibes of a world where cars weren’t just transportation; they were art, man!
Roth was a pinstriper, a custom car builder, and a madcap artist who saw the world through a kaleidoscope of candy-apple paint and fiberglass fantasies.
By the late ‘50s, he’s airbrushin’ “weirdo” T-shirts at car shows, slingin’ designs that make the hot rod crowd lose their cool. And then, one fateful day, he doodles a grotesque, toothy rat on a napkin
—Rat Fink is born, a slobberin’, bloodshot-eyed anti-hero to Walt Disney’s squeaky-clean Mickey.
This ain’t no kid’s cartoon; it’s a rebel yell for every gearhead who ever dreamed of burnin’ out at the drag stripRat Fink hit the scene like a nitro-fueled rocket in ’63, advertised as “The rage in California” in Car Craft magazine.
Kids like me, sittin’ at our desks with glue-stained fingers,
-- were buildin’ Revell model kits of Rat Fink drivin’ hot rods like the Beatnik Bandit or the Mysterion, each one a plastic shrine to the Kustom Kulture gospel.
These weren’t just toys, man—they were portals to a world where your car was your soul, and every rev of the engine was a poem. Revell sold millions of these kits, and Roth pocketed a penny per sale, but it was the T-shirts, decals, and keychains that turned Rat Fink into a legend.
By the mid-’60s, every greaser from Pomona to Poughkeepsie was rockin’ a Rat Fink shirt, its green ghoul behind the wheel of a flame-spittin’ rod, flies buzzin’ ‘round his head like groupies at a drag race.
Now, let’s talk about the Rat Fink gang, ‘cause our boy didn’t roll solo.
Big Daddy conjured a whole crew of weirdo monsters, each with their own freaky flair. There was .....
Mr. Gasser, a shades-wearin’ hipster with a gas can for a heart, always ready to chug fuel and blow smoke rings.
Drag Nut was the speed-crazed nutcase, clutchin’ a steering wheel like it was his lifeline, his eyes poppin’ outta his skull.
Mother’s Worry, a nervous wreck of a monster, was forever frettin’ about his rod breakin’ down mid-race. And don’t forget
Surf Fink, the beach-bum beast ridin’ waves and rods with equal gusto, his board as wild as his ride.
These cats were drawn by Roth and his pals like R.K. Sloane and Ed Newton, and they screamed one thing: bein’ different was the grooviest thing you could be. The message? “Be a Fink, be a Weirdo, and let your freak flag fly!”
Back in elementry school, man, the Rat Fink vibe was our religion.
We weren’t out causin’ trouble or throwin’ fists—nah, we were too busy polishin’ our bikes till they gleamed like a desert mirage.
Picture a ’64 Chevy Impala or a ’57 Ford Thunderbird, decked out with Cragar rims shinin’ like silver dollars, a big-block engine rumblin’ louder than a rock ‘n’ roll show.
We’d spend Saturday nights with my Dad, who was a Hot Rodder, at the Irwindale drag strip,
--the air thick with burnt rubber and the scream of camshafts.
I always dug it when riding with Dad, Mom and brothers he would always burn rubber when the boys would scream "Drive Crazy Dad".
Mom loved it, she was a Hot Rod Chick who worked at a Texaco gas station when pops pulled up in his Hot Rod.
Dad said the first time she filled his tank, checked his oil then told him his timing was off.... he knew.
Even when I would visit my Dad in his senior years he would ask me to "show me a 100 miles per hour", offering to pay the ticket.
"Lets roll Pops"......
After school with your pals you’d pop the hood, swap out a carburetor, tweak the timing, and maybe throw in a new cam just to make that engine roar like a T-Rex with a toothache.
The chicks? Oh, they dug it, man
—those loud pipes were like a love song, and your gal would be right there in the passenger seat, her hair flippin’ in the breeze as you cruised Main Street before her old man’s curfew kicked in.
Mom / Dad, The cops? They weren’t the enemy, dig?
If your ride was clean and your chrome was tight, they’d tip their hats, admirin’ the work you put in. We weren’t delinquents; we were artists, sculptin’ speed with wrenches and dreams.
The mindset was simple: your car was your canvas, your status, your ticket to cool. You’d roll up to the A&W drive-in, your best pal ridin’ shotgun, and the whole crew would pile out to talk shop—headers, dual exhausts, maybe a slick candy-apple paint job like Roth’s Road Agent.
No fights, no badness, just a brotherhood of grease monkeys livin’ for the next quarter-mile run.
Today, the Rat Fink flame still burns, man. Elders—guys who were wrenchin’ in the ‘60s—are still rockin’ those T-shirts, now faded but proud, at car shows from Manti, Utah, to Bowling Green, Kentucky.
The Rat Fink Reunion, held every June in Manti, brings out pinstripers, airbrush artists, and hot rod fanatics who keep Big Daddy’s legacy alive.
Kids who never knew the ‘60s are discoverin’ Rat Fink on Facebook, their eyes lightin’ up like mine did when I glued together those Revell models.
The art’s still out there—on tattoos, decals, even album covers for punk bands like The Birthday Party or White Zombie.
It’s a vibe that says, “Screw conformity, man—build somethin’ wild, drive it fast, and love it loud.”So, what’s the deal with Rat Fink’s lastin’ groove?
It’s the spirit, man—the same spirit that had us high school cats spendin’ every dime on our rods instead of trouble. It’s about creatin’ somethin’ from nothin’, like Roth did with a napkin doodle and a fiberglass dream.
It’s about the joy of a V8’s rumble, the shine of a polished fender, and the laugh you get when you see that green rat with his tongue stickin’ out, drivin’ a hot rod to the stars.
When you’re 10, Rat Fink’s tellin’ ya to keep the pedal to the metal.
Now, go and cruise. But first Moms calling for me to wash my hands.... dinner is ready.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
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